In Mamai's 'Boston Marriage,' women spar and flirt and make the most of Mamet

Sisters are doin' it for themselves. From left: Cathleen O'Malley (Claire), Khaki Hermann (Catherine) and Shanna Beth McGee (Anna) in the MamaÃ­ Theatre Company production of "Boston Marriage."Courtesy of Mamai Theatre Company

Anna and Claire, the tigresses who stalk each other through a jungle of ornately upholstered poufs and fainting couches in the astringent, Victorian-era drawing-room comedy “Boston Marriage,” are very Mamet. That is to say, they are highly verbal, quick-witted, profane narcissists after a big score.

The play is also very Wildean, both in its subject matter (gleaming-eyed vice nestled just under corseted virtue) and clever, cutting linguistic gymnastics.

That this union is such a lustful, satisfying one — especially under the kinetic, knowing direction of Mamaí Theatre Company’s Christine McBurney — is a welcome surprise.

What’s more surprising is that David Mamet’s 1999 play has nary an oily scammer, boorish bar fly or confidence man afflicted with logorrhea in sight — think “Glengarry Glen Ross” or “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” or “House of Games.” (Mamet’s scripts are usually so testosterone-heavy, their very pages give off the faint whiff of a men’s locker room.)

REVIEW

Boston Marriage

What: A Mamai Theatre Company production of the play by David Mamet. Directed by Christine McBurney.

Anna (Shanna Beth McGee) is a kept woman living in guilt-free comfort thanks to a monthly stipend from her married “protector.” She has a maid (Khaki Hermann), a weepy Scottish girl named Catherine who Anna insists is Irish, and a very best friend called Claire (Cathleen O’Malley).

Claire has fallen for someone who is too young for her — so young, in fact, the object of her desire cannot travel without a chaperone. Which is why Claire has a favor to ask: Can she use Anna’s luxurious apartment for her “vile assignation”? (That’s Anna’s term for Claire’s hook-up.) After much begging and coaxing, Anna relents — as long as she can watch.

The pretty young thing Claire has her eye on is not a he, but a she. And Anna can take or leave her loaded paramour; it’s Claire she really wants.

“Boston Marriage” — a turn-of-the-century euphemism for women living together who may or may not have been getting it on — is a comedy of manners the likes of which you have never seen. It’s “The Importance of Being The L-Word,” and one could argue the show is worth catching for that reason alone, so wearisome have Austenian adaptations — hours of penniless women pinning for well-off dandies — become.

Still, as in Jane Austen, the fortunes of Mamet’s women are yoked to the attentions of men — and just like that, Anna’s livelihood and Claire’s budding romance are threatened by an emerald necklace, “excessive for the morning” and a gift from Anna’s lover. Can they avert financial and emotional ruin?

As the women spar and flirt and scheme, McBurney keeps them in almost constant motion, alighting on furniture and fluttering around the cart holding the bottle of sherry like poisonous butterflies, a good strategy for a talky play.

The cast is a marvelously tight trio, with a special tip of the top hat to McGee and O’Malley for their high-speed locutions. The actresses weave words around each other like silk ties in a bondage game; even when those words devolve into the juvenile — there is an extended joke about a muff — they keep our attention riveted.

(Having known McGee in her teaching world as voice professor in the theater department at Case Western Reserve University, it was a delight to see how quickly our acquaintance faded in her transformative characterization of the voracious, haughty Anna.)

And of course, Mamet wouldn’t be Mamet without some gutter talk, albeit muffled under layers of crinoline: “You whore!,” “You pagan slut,” “cold, cold, ancient, jealous hag.” It’s more fun when he can’t deploy words that would be bleeped on network TV, a crutch that can make some of his other work feel flat and puerile.

In choosing this work to direct, McBurney wondered, “Just about every Mamet play has been done in Cleveland. Why not this one?” (Dear God, anything but “Oleanna.”)

It’s an excellent question, and the answer might have something to do with the fact that this script has the whiff of perfume. Whatever the case, the play is like that necklace that sends everything topsy-turvy: glossy, arresting and deeply faceted, something to show all your friends.

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